Things Unknown and Longed For Still
by hauntedd
Summary: Priya, the dollhouse and other wardens.


AN: Dollhouse is not mine, nor is the poem, which is "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" by the lovely Maya Angelou.

* * *

_**I. A free bird leaps on the back of the wind  
and floats downstream till the current ends  
and dips his wing in the orange suns rays and dares to claim the sky**  
_

Priya comes to America at nineteen on a whim, fresh out of a three-year relationship, something, she muses is her own fault. He promises forever with a diamond and a gold ring and she flees across oceans and time zones to a place where no one knows her name.

She's always been one to do the unexpected, even when it's expected of her.

The excess of Los Angeles welcomes her like any other fish out of water gasping for air and fighting for steadier footing and yet she never regrets her decision. She settles in as best she can with the realization that 5,000 Australian dollars doesn't go nearly as far in America—a beach side studio, well, shack, really, but it suits her needs quite nicely and it's all she can afford.

Priya makes her way by cleaning homes at first for 15 dollars an hour and using what little spare money she has on art supplies. If she's going to make it as an artist she has to make an effort, a commitment.

It takes the better part of two years, but eventually she has enough squirreled away to stake out a spot on the boardwalk and sell her wares to the masses and she finds she's halfway decent at what she does. It's hard work, but Priya is happier than she's ever been.

Funny how she's able to commit to herself far easier than she ever could to anyone else.

**_II. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage  
can seldom see through his bars of rage  
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing._  
**

Nolan seems nice enough, cookie cutter WASP, and everything she'd left behind, but he pays her bills in hundred dollar increments, painting by painting, so she doesn't question anything. Nor does she notice his interest in her, even when it's pointed out by others.

If she ignores it, it doesn't exist, and they can continue their professional agreement as long there is a roof over her head and her stomach is full. But, of course, the other foot drops eventually, and he's finally found a way to corner her into something she can't refuse.

She makes him a painting with bright colors and birds flying freely across a large canvas in the hopes he takes the hint, which he doesn't, because she's learning quickly he's less a fan of art than he is a fan of her, which would be sweet, if she were interested in being treated like an item in a gallery.

The party is suffocating and the people insufferable, but for the money she's received she supposes she can fake it for a little while, even though it makes her feel slightly like a whore, especially with the social-climbing brunette talking to her about sticking with a man, Nolan, to advance her career.

But at least she's honest and forthright, more than can be said for any of the other attendees so Priya pays her more mind than she might have any other time. However, it's not until she's introduced to Luca that she realizes there might be something worthwhile at the party after all.

They chat for a while about art and she pretends to be interested and flattered by comparisons to artists that she doesn't know about. Priya's never cared much for study, more concerned with action and the finished product, but he's easy on the eyes and she needs an escape from the largesse.

"You move because there is wind," he observes and her eyes widen at the bit of insight, suddenly the possibility of taking him home with her seems like an eventuality. No one has ever understood her, and yet in six words, this man has defined exactly who and what she is at her core.

However, her plans go awry in five minutes or less when odd men speak of treatments and Luca is out the door, as if he were never there at all. Instead Nolan is back with her, more insistent and desperate and all the adjectives and descriptors she'd spent far too long trying to ignore.

"Everyone is here to adore you," he claims and the words cause her to pale slightly as she heads to the door, which she soon realizes is a mistake as the adrenaline kicks in and his hands grip at her wrists, pinning her in place.

She never wanted to be adored. Priya simply wants to be seen.

**_III. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill  
of things unknown but longed for still  
and his tune is heard on the distant hill  
for the caged bird sings of freedom._  
**

Nothing makes sense in the white expanse of padded cells and thoughts jumbled and clouded together beyond what she strings together in moments of clarity, which, she's certain, is a simplification of a far more complex issue.

_These people, they're filling me up with poison._

However, she clings to what she can as brainwaves misfire and pills are forced into her in rapid succession to cure a disease that is merely a figment of their imagination. Or so she thinks, anyway, and thoughts are all she has left as dignity and privacy were traded for hospital gowns and straight jackets.

White, of course, everything was always white.

It's a complete lack of color and when she came to she thought she was dying and she still wonders, sometimes, when her memories seem like dreams of lives she's unsure she's ever lived and the ghosts and private haunts of dark thoughts imbue her mind with secret worries that come out as screams and outbursts because they're all that she has left.

The dark-haired man, Nolan, she thinks, but she's never sure, visits sometimes and gives her "treats", which is simply a euphemism for drugs. At first he had to hold his hand over her mouth to get her to take them, but now it's far more civilized.

Or, perhaps, she's simply grown more barbaric.

**_IV. The free bird thinks of another breeze  
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees  
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own._  
**

Sierra is uncertain what to make of the feeling in her chest when she runs into Victor other than it's warm and inviting and it feels _good_ in a way she can't quite explain.

They spend a lot of time together in this place, painting, exercising, cutting bonsai trees in tandem, never without the other. Sometimes, he'll slip a hand in hers and she'll let him, because he's her _friend_.

She paints birds in watercolors as he watches, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth as his dark eyes gaze at her. Sierra likes Victor a lot; he makes her happy and safe, even when the bad man comes and gives her nightmares that she can never remember in full.

He feels like this place sometimes and while she's not sure it's the right word, it works for now.

Ultimately, Victor feels like home.

**_V. But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams  
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream  
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing._  
**

It hurts her to remember life _before_ when she was a free-spirited artist whose hands were not coated crimson and she believed in the goodness of strangers. However, she never got the chance, even if a life without the memory of his body, bruised and broken, underneath her had been promised to her once, a long time ago.

That, too, feels like a different life.

Topher claims that it was a mistake, an error in the programming, that memory is a strange beast, but Priya's not stupid. For whatever reason, he wanted her to keep the memory—at first she thinks it's punishment for a perceived ill, but she thinks better of it. He was the one who woke her up in the first place, a personal Prince Charming to her 21st century Sleeping Beauty.

However, she keeps at it, wracking her mind for an answer. She figures that her time as a schizophrenic and all the other personalities that once held residence in her body can only help to understand Topher's motivations.

It's simpler than she thinks and Priya curses herself when she realizes the evil, or at least morally grey, genius is a romantic at heart.

Victor, no, Anthony—does it even matter any more? Everything was engineered so she'd remember how she felt in the first days of her first rebirth, when she regained control of her body and everything became too overwhelming to do anything other than act impulsively.

She loved him, instinctually, something primal and oh so real. And as much as Priya would like to pretend sometimes, it's a bit of programming that remained, _after_, she knows better when she's beneath him and every bit of her craves every piece of him.

Just another thing binding her to this place, a life she was forced into and ultimately came to on her own merits. A chicken and egg dilemma for the ages, she supposes, not that it ever mattered in the moment.

But when Tony does that thing with his tongue, she doesn't really give a damn.

**_VI. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill  
of things unknown but longed for still  
and his tune is heard on the distant hill  
for the caged bird sings of freedom._  
**

They make a home on the outskirts of Tucson, Tony helps with security and they settle into a routine, comfortable and comforting, as the world goes to shit around them. However, there are words left unsaid, increasing in their weight and meaning as their son grows.

Anthony thinks what he's doing is for the best, using his gifts for their son. They might be similar in several ways, this is something on which they'll never agree. He sees value in technology; she only sees the reality of the aftermath.

While it may have been forced upon Tony years ago, at Rossum's behest, they've been away from technology and the communication unit since then and he's sworn up and down that he's not like _them_-he doesn't crave the shared consciousness of what are now known as Tech Heads, but it's all a lie.

Priya just wishes she hadn't been stupid enough to believe it. That she wasn't shocked when he left with a note after a night together that she realizes, now, felt more like a funeral than a celebration of life, of love.

But when he comes back, three years later, his face marred with metal scars and everything she hates imbedded in his skin, she feels herself grow weak, even as her anger comes to the surface. She avoids him as much as one can while pretending to be cordial only to learn that they're being forced back _there_ lest she forget.

If it were 10 years ago, she would have stayed, she tells herself, even though she knows it's not true. Sure, T makes the decision easier to justify, but even with the scars she would choose Tony every time.

Because while the Dollhouse may be her prison, Tony, in all his incarnations, set her free.


End file.
